


Tour Edition

by little_abyss



Series: The Wastelands [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Backstory, Band Break Up, Banter, Concert, Drinking, F/F, Flirting, Gen, Love at First Sight, M/M, Musical References, Musicians, Pre-Band, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 18,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion fics and ficlets relating to the (much longer) fics <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4874683">'Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise'</a> and the series<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/440866">'Holy, Holy, Holy'</a>.  This group is comprised of origin stories, moments which are referred to in the two longer fics.  Various relationships are depicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kirkwall International Airport; 9:37 Dragon

"Thank you, Mr. Rutherford.  Enjoy your flight," But she is too cheery, too bright.  Cullen knows he looks a wreck, though Maker knows he has tried.  It happens every time though - he will be searched, his prescription checked as many times as possible, wanded and patted and his bags will be gone through.  "Thank you," he sighs, takes his passport from the bench and picks up his hand luggage.  He walks out of the queue, then stands at the end of the conveyor belt, watching as the hard shell case containing his favourite bass disappears into the depths of the airport.

 

He has dosed half an hour before arriving at the airport, in the public restroom at the train station.  Kirkwall is on lockdown, still jittery after the riots of two nights since and he can't wait to be shot of the place.  Lee had always liked it here, but then he is a Marcher; Kirkwall must seem relatively liberated after the intensity of Starkhaven.  But to a Fereldan kid, it's tense, always on edge, the monochromatic scheme of red-on-red making his heart sick for the sound of a stream or the green and yellow of fields and trees.  

 

He does not know what he will do now.  Red Dogs of Violent Death will continue without him; he expects someone from White Chant will be in touch.  After what seems like hours of mindless wandering through the airport, he throws his bag underneath a seat and sits, boots creaking.  He sighs, then starts as he hears his name.

 

"Cullen?" It is a woman, dressed all in black; she seems familiar, but Cullen cannot place her.  She seems to realise this, and puts out her hand, heavy with silver rings.  "Cassandra Pentaghast.  I play...  played ... guitar with Seek Truth, O Makers' Children!... we gigged together at last years CrowFest."  The piercings in either cheek create the illusion of dimples when she smiles as he shakes her hand.  "I'm sorry," he tells her, "I don't remember the gig."  He thinks he would remember meeting a woman like this - tallish, dark hair and eyes, her voice almost with a cigarettes-and-whiskey rasp to it.  And then it clicks - watching this woman with Lucius, that dickhead, on stage, absolutely tearing it up, pulling these incredible soundscapes from the instrument in her hands.  He had tried to figure out her tuning, but aside from the obvious fact that it was downtuned almost to a bass level, he couldn't be more specific.  

 

He looks at Cassandra, and smiles, nodding.  As she puts her bag down and sits beside him, he remembers looking at Meredith briefly, in the dimness of the wings, seeing her scratch the phantom itches in her arms as she had watched Cassandra. Lee had been pacing behind them, not listening, getting himself into the head space.  Then Meredith had tilted her head and grinned, leaned over to Cullen and said, "She's better than him, and he hates it.  Lucius fuckin' hates her."   Cassandra says nothing, just looks at him, and the silence between them becomes awkward.  Then she asks, almost abruptly, "Do you think it was Fader?  That Fader caused all that bullshit?"

 

He is a little taken aback at the question.  Still, it is the thing on everyone's lips; the violence at Kirkwall had been the major fodder in the media for days now, speculation as to who instigated the riots becoming more isolated to an event at the stage Fader had been playing on.  Slowly, he shakes his head, then shrugs, "Maybe.  Were you playing?"

"No.  Officially, Seek Truth is on hiatus.  But," and here she snorts with disgust, "We're broken up.  Someone will get around to telling White Chant eventually, but it certainly won't be me."  She raises an eyebrow and asks softly, "I hear you're in the same boat..?"

 

"No hiatus here.  I left."  Those two words, those two little words.  He sweeps his long hair back off his shoulders, twists it around his hand; a gesture which has become so second nature over the last few months he doesn't even notice it any more.  "I'm going home."  He looks away from her, out across the concourse and repeats, "I'm going home, getting clean.  I don't know what I'll do after that."

  
A boarding announcement is made, and in the fine tradition of airports everywhere, he can only make out half of it.  Cassandra pauses, listening, then rummages in the duffle at her feet, coming up with a black marker.  "Look," she says, and swallows quickly, almost nervously, "After you get clean, if you want... if you want to maybe get together, go in a new direction, get in touch, okay?"  She leans over, grabs his arm and pushes his sleeve back.  He notices her sharp exhalation at how thin his arm is, how dry the skin, and then she is writing an email address on his forearm.  As she is writing, she tells him almost crossly, "I gotta get going.  That's my flight.  But don't be a stranger, okay?  You're too good at what you do to throw it all away."  With that, she recaps the marker, flings it into her bag and gets up.  "Remember, Cullen.  Get in touch."  She looks at him seriously for a moment, then slings the bag over her shoulder and stalks away.  He watches her until she rounds the corner, then looks at his arm.  "Inquisition Records," he reads, and wonders.


	2. A Condemned Building, Haven; 9:39 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of the riot grrrl band Bees!Bees!Bees!

“Hey.  Widdle.  Don’ drink that, ‘kay?  Ickle thing like you needs somethin’ a bit sweet, yeah?”  Sera grins, thrusts her cup toward the dwarf, who looks startled.  She puts the beer down tentatively and Sera waggles the cup and says, “Try this.”

 

The dwarf girl sniffs at the drink and Sera looks over the heads of the people in the darkened, crummy house.  The carpet smells like mildew and cat piss, the only lights are from a few gennie-operated spots and candles.  Still, feels like home.  Even moreso since the Pussy Lickers are really going for it now, Maryden screaming into the microphone,  _ it ain’t right! it ain’t right!  it ain’t right! _ Ah, Maker, Maryden’s never gonna make it big, all her yammer about having a big-shite deal just around the corner has just gotta be lies.  Sera shakes her head.  She knows it hurts the movement to be jealous, at least that’s what Jenny says, but… Mary’s such a fuckin’  scenester .  

 

“Whoa!” the dwarf yelps, and Sera looks back at her, eyes wide.  The dwarf - dwarva? - dwarfette? - whatever - grins though her eyes are watering and says, “That  _ is _ sweet!  What’s in it?”

Sera smiles, takes her cup back.  This girl is familiar, like she’s seen her in a dream.  Oh.  That’s exactly it.  Play it cool, dumb shit, she thinks, and says, “‘S a secret, innit.  Secret concoction.”

“Ooh.  Was I your guinea pig?”

“My what?”

“Your guinea pig.  You know; your lab rat, your live subject trial.  Was it an experiment?”  The widdle laughs, and it takes Sera a second to realise the laugh is self-depreciatory, rather than at her.  Comes with the territory, she supposes - too many people just write her off.  Those stuck up hags in Cookie Jar, who said she couldn’t play for shit for instance.   Aw, shite , she thinks, but before her brain and her mouth can get on the same page, she says, “Dreamed about you.  Corn told me we’d be in a band together.”

  
_ shitey-fuckstink-dickmunch-boogerbutt, _ she thinks.  Now this widdle’s gonna think she’s looney, when all she wants is just to find one cool lady, one cool female person in the whole of this frozen-ass wasteland of a city to be in a band with.  But then, the widdle smiles.  “That’s amazing!  I’m looking for a band!  What do you play?  I’m Dagna, sorry, should have introduced myself, I play drums.  I don’t have my whole kit here yet, but I’ve got enough to count, including this weird experimental cut down floor tom?  It’s a jazz tom, re-stretched with… ah, don’t worry, doesn’t matter.  When d’you want to rehearse?    Do you have a space in mind?  Oh, Paragons, I’m whittering, I’m sorry.  But I just meant, yes, I’d love that.  To be in a band, I mean.”  She pauses, grinning hugely, “With you.”


	3. Darktown Sewers: 9:39 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origins of the band Fader.

They walk, the three of them, down into the dark. They can hear the music, tinny, distorted, lovely. Hawke’s voice echoes off the stone, travelling around the cramped space, “Let me do the talking, ‘kay? If he’s anything like what Varric said…”

“Varric only said he was with Rebel Warden, used to do vocals for them.” Isabela pouts, shakes out her mane of hair and puts her arm around Merrill. “What do you need us for, if we can’t talk to him? He comes to us, we gotta get on with him too.”

“Yeah, but I’m the charming one. I’m the one with the Hawke mojo…”

“The Hawke mojo?” Isabela laughs, and Merrill grins, “Does Carver have that too?”

“Nah. Carver’s more Amell than anything…”

“But he’s your brother..!”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re related, Merrill-baby,” Hawke laughs. Merrill frowns at him, clearly trying to figure it out, and Isabela sighs. “He’s being a dork again, Kitten.”

“Which is exactly why I should be the one to talk to this guy. If he’s any good, that is.”

 

The underground space, referred to in the scene as The Sewer because of the unholy stink that never seems to leave it, is heaving. Fader have played here twice before, Izzy and Hawke taking turns on vocals, but neither of them would be in a rush to do it again. Merrill reckoned it was still nicer than the Alienage, which made Hawke sigh and ruffle her hair. He had bought donuts and apples to her house the next day, but knows she gave them away to the five kids living in the one room next door to her. _This sick city,_ he thinks to himself, and then Isabela nudges him. She is staring at the stage, and as Hawke bends toward her mouth, he sees her narrow her eyes.

“That’s your man,” she almost-yells, “And Varric was right. But I know him - he used to gig with Highever Orphan too, back in their Denerim days. He’s good. Heard he’d had some legal troubles though…” But Hawke barely listens. As he had bent toward Isabela, his gaze had been arrested by the man on the stage. He just watched as the singer whirled in a circle, full skirt flaring, eyes closed. The drummer is really going for it, and suddenly Hawke knows he has to get closer. He shoulders his way through the crowd, pressed up against each other, space left nearest the stage for the circle.

 

The singer grins, puts his foot up on an old amplifier, takes his skirt in hand. Then he tilts his head back and howls into the microphone. And with that sound, Hawke is lost to it, he knows he wants this man. Sure, he has presence, and pipes like you wouldn’t believe, and if he wrote those lyrics, then… clearly, he’s too good for the Clinic, a go-nowhere outfit if Hawke had ever seen it. The singer pushes himself up onto the amp, standing above the crowd, one arm raised, pale skin slicked with sweat, skirt just cresting the jut of his hipbones. He tosses his long, red-gold hair back and seems to look directly at Hawke as he sings the line _I want! to find some laughter. When you laugh, they can’t kill you…_ And Hawke feels… Maker, he doesn’t know, this tearing kind of shake inside himself at the words and the gaze, fraught, paralyzing. He feels suddenly like he knows him, this complete stranger. _Anders_ , he remembers, _his name is Anders._ But by then, the singers gaze has shifted to someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little reference here: the lyrics that Anders is singing are from the song [Sadness](http://youtu.be/3H8qdtbR8Ws) by Porno for Pyros.


	4. Temple Collegiate: 9:26 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the band Red Dogs of Violent Death.

“Rutherford!  Oi, Rutherford!”

He shakes his head, mutters, “Bloody oath,” under his breath and jogs toward the other boys retreating back.  Finally, he catches up, punches Rutherford lightly in the back of his shoulder.  “Oi, didn’t you hear me?”

 

“What?  No, sorry,”  Rutherford looks puzzled, lost almost and Lee feels a momentary sympathy  for him.   _ Poor little good boy _ , he thinks, and almost grins, sweeping his lengthening hair back from his forehead. Then he remembers his purpose and folds his arms.  “Stannard says you play guitar.”

“Yeah..?”

“You ever played bass before?”

“No.  Not really.  Well… once.”

“Which is it then?”

“What?”

“Is it no, not really, or once?”  He shrugs, wondering if this guy is worth it.  Stannard hadn’t seemed that into it, but then again, she never really does.  Rutherford doesn’t look like he’s going to stumble out a reply any time soon, so Lee decides the next question will clinch it.  “You like Traitors Daughter?”

 

And the other boys expression brightens like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I do!”  And then, holy shit, he  _ sings _ : “I’m not afraid of screaming, and I’m not afraid of crying.  I’m just afraid of forgetting and I am afraid of dying.”  Lee cannot help it, he does grin then, and Rutherford goes bright red and rubs the back of his neck.  “Pretty good,” Lee tells him, his eyebrows rising.  There’s no denying it, the guy is cute, in a doofy sort of way.  And at least his taste in music doesn’t completely suck.

 

Rutherford shrugs.  “I like them.  They’ve got some good songs.”

“Yeah, well.  You wanna come with me?  I’m gonna go to their gig on Friday.”

But Rutherford frowns at this, stares at Lee, suddenly suspicious.  “I thought it was an over-21.”

 

Lee grins, laughs a little.  “It is.  But I know a guy, works the door of the Ruin.  He’ll get us in.”  He shrugs, affecting nonchalance.    Rutherford looks at him a little longer, then quirks his mouth, almost smiling.  “Okay.  Okay.  Uh… I’m sorry, but I don’t know…”

“Lee.  Lee Samson.”  He thrusts out a hand, and Rutherford shakes it.  They have a Common class together, and advanced mathematics, but Rutherford’s always sitting up the front, just the kind of good boy who wouldn’t have much time for Lee and his little gang of miscreants.  Still, he smiles as they drop their hands, and tells Rutherford, “C’mon.  Come with me.”


	5. Abandoned Barracks, Honnleath: 9:27 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about RDVD and Cullen and Lee's burgeoning relationship.

He wakes as Lee’s shadow passes over him.  “Lee,” he murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Go to sleep, dude.”

“Can’t.”  The voice is snappish, and Cullen watches as Lee whirls around, striding back across the room.  When he reaches the other wall, he turns again, raking both hands through his thick, dark hair.  Cullen just watches. Slowly, he raises himself onto one elbow, and yawns.  Despite the thick coat he wears, it’s still chilly, and his feet are freezing inside his boots.  He lies on the cardboard box they had flattened to use as a mattress, and the wind whips chilly through the broken window.  The thin t-shirt that Lee wears is stuck to his back with sweat though, and Cullen smiles a little as he watches, thinking  _ more songs. _

 

After several more passes, Lee goes to the duffle in the corner, kneeling in the pale silvery light of the half-moon.  He rummages out a ballpoint pen and a small, spiral bound notepad.  Then he crouches, there on his haunches and writes furiously for a few minutes.  Cullen sighs, listening to the sounds in the darkness; Maddox’s raised voice in one of the nearby rooms, cars on the freeway, the scuttle of the rats that have made this building their home.  The moon is riding low in the sky, slinking toward the horizon, making way for dawn.  Cullen’s attention is bought back to Lee as he hums something under his breath, then crosses something out.  There is a pause, more scribbling, then he sighs and chucks both the notepad and the pen back into the bag.  Then he swivels on the balls of his feet, turning to look at Cullen with a smirk.  “You up?”

 

Cullen laughs quietly, then raises an eyebrow.  “Yeah, I suppose.  Against my will.”  Lee tilts his head, his expression changing, becoming considering.  Then slowly, he lowers his head and the smirk turns vulpine, all eyes and teeth in the dim light of the decaying building.  He leans forward, off his haunches.  Then, slowly, he pads toward Cullen, on his hands and knees.  Cullen watches him approach and bites his lip.  When Lee reaches him, when he leans in close to Cullen’s face, there is something so needy, so unwilling about him that Cullen almost cannot bear it.  Lee’s mouth is open slightly.  Time hangs between them, a light-struck prism, then Cullen stretches forwards.  He kisses Lee, his mouth soft and wet, tasting of corn chips and beer.  His hand goes to the other boys hair, gritty with glue and dirt, the shaved sides rough under Cullen’s fingers.  Lee moves forward, pushing Cullen down, and breaks the kiss.  He just looms there, panting for a moment, grey-green eyes wide.  Then, all of a sudden, he whispers, “You said we couldn’t do this again.”

“Yeah.  I know.”  Cullen whispers back, taking his hands from the back of Lee’s head.  His chest heaves, his heart pounds, and he closes his eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I’m an idiot, I…”

“No.  It’s okay.  I… I want to.”  Lee swallows, stays quiet until Cullen opens his eyes again.  “We don’t have to tell anyone.  Not if you…” he sighs, then resumes, “Not if you don’t want to.”


	6. Philliam interviews Bees! Bees! Bees!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the title of this is pretty self explanatory!)

Philliam’s own Remi Vascal attempted an interview with Bees!Bees!Bees! on the signing to Inquisition Records, the tour for  _ Good Things in Wartime _ ; but he mostly just  got his ass handed to him.  Here it is anyway.

 

**So, you guys…**

D: Uh, we’re not guys.  We’re ladies…

S: Chicks!  Women!  Broads!  Dames! Do you see a cock bulge anywhere, huh?

 

**Right, so ladies,**

D: Please don’t call us that.  We have names.

S: Yeah.  Don’t be a tosser.  If you can help it.

 

**[pause] Sera and Dagna, would you…**

S: You’re gonna ask us about signing with Inquisition, ain’t ya?  Well, listen, it’s clearly that we wanted to make a fuck tonne more money, that’s why we didn’t keep goin’ indie, right?  I mean, I’m totally interested in making money, screw the fans, right, Widdle?

D: [laughs] Oh, right! It wasn’t anything to do with getting a better deal for our music, and furthering the reach of it, making it available to more people.  And [laughs again] Inquisition have been super unhelpful like that, clearly not interested in doing anything for the little guy.

 

**Uh… are you being sarcastic?**

[silence]

 

**Okay.  Uh… so how’s the…**

D: The tour is amazing.  I mean, our record isn’t even out yet, but these… like the scene is alive and fucking well right across Thedas.  Like, we got an amazing zine the other day, made by this woman in the Anderfels, and it just… it just like, broke my heart and made me so happy, all in the same moment.  Do you get that?  No, probably not.  But it was amazing, just… we get these people showing up at our gigs, and they’ve seen some footage of us or whatever on Youtube, and it’s just crazy.  It’s really getting the word out there.  I don’t know what we’d do without our fans, do you?

S: Nah.  They’re awesome.  Like, it might just seem little people with little lives, right?  But little people, all together, little people like us…

D: You’re a bigger little person than I am…

S: Yeah, ha-fucking-ha, Widdle, I’ve heard that one before!  But… uh… yeah, y’know, it’s all just people, innit?  People make a thing great, and as soon as you forget that, you’ve just shat in your own pants and you’re walking around reekin’ like fuck, and ain’t no-one’s gonna tell you about it, because that’s hilarious.

D: Uh… did you lose track of that metaphor?

S: A little. Yeah.  But I like to say shat.  It’s kind of funny, yeah?  

 

**Yeah.  Hey, I was wondering…**

D: Oh, well, you can make the personal political, but I don’t really get what a lot of modern feminist writers see, you know?  Like… I’m a woman, but I’m also a dwarf.  I think a lot of the time, a lot of them forget that dwarves, elves - we’re women too, you know?  We have the same sorts of bodies, but somehow we’re discounted?

S: Yeah, and then you bring class into it, right?  Like, it’s real fashionable to think that class don’t exist any more, yeah, but that ain’t true.  Whenever you have someone makin’ more money than someone else, whenever there’s this misguided line of thought that it’s the shit you own, it’s stuff that matters, not interaction, like, y’know, interaction with other people, treatin’ people right, then that’s some fucked up shit.  Like, you can call me a feminist, but I dunno, I sorta reject the label, yeah?  Like…

D:  Like it’s… sort of dangerous, isn’t it?  Dangerous to be called that by others, to call yourself a feminist, because people assume, don’t they?  But it’s what you know in your heart that you are, and then you do what’s best for yourself, you do the best that you can, and it doesn’t matter what anyone says.  


	7. Philliam Interviews Zevran Arainai of Crow Blade

It’s been a long time coming for Zevran Arainai.  Nearly fifteen years after the infamous drop of Crow Blade from their label El Canto, the band has been given a new lease on life.  As well as the plans for a new album and tour to support it, Arainai’s star is on the rise again with the  _ Farewell to Arms _ tour for Pirate Queen in full swing.  Philliam’s own  **Maryden Halewell** spoke with the bassist about returning to the studio, the demise of Pirate Queen and how to say nothing but yes.

 

**Hey, Zev.  How’re things with you?**

Oh, wonderful, wonderful!  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and life is good.   

 

**But you guys are still touring, is that right?**

Yes indeed.  The Pirate Queen and her worthy crew are touring extensively at the moment, working our little fingers to the bone, making captain Isabela proud of us.  It is what we live for, no?  To make our dear captain happy.  And ourselves, of course.

 

**Is touring with Pirate Queen nothing but sex, drugs and rock and roll?**

Plenty of everything to go around.  That is for certain.  I wouldn’t say  _ nothing but _ though - Isabela and Merrill, dear Merrill, we work hard and play hard.  No sense in doing one if you cannot do the other, wouldn’t you say?  

 

**That sounds about right.  But with Fader getting back together, and Isabela and Merrill going back to that, do you feel like it was… cut short?  Pirate Queen?**

Oh no!  All good things come to an end.  All of everything comes to an end eventually.  The trick is to really enjoy it while you’re doing it, to just say yes to everything that comes your way.  If Fader hadn’t gotten back together, perhaps Crow Blade [now signed to Apostasy/Freedom Music] would not have gotten a chance to get back together.  And almost certainly, if Pirate Queen had continued for longer, it would be something else which drove us apart.

 

**Your career has spanned some pretty crazy times in Thedan rock - you’ve been linked with bands like Last Warden Standing, Highever Orphan, Golden Mirror and Lycanthrope…**

Oh yes… [laughs]  Crazy times, as you say.  That’s the bonus of having a reputation!  It’s all worked out almost as if I had planned it, no?  It still amazes me that so many of these bands have stayed together for so long - of course, we all have a few more wrinkles.  Well.  Not me.  But everyone else.  

 

It was sad to hear about Gwen [Cousland-Theirin, Highever Orphan].  I wonder where she’s got to?  

 

**Nobody seems to know…**

Poor Al.  That’s terrible.  I hope they find her soon.  I wasn’t surprised to hear that Last Warden Standing had cancelled their shows.  All those silly rumours about Noodle...

 

**It is very strange.  But Zev, what’s the reasoning behind going back to record a new Crow Blade album?  Why now?**

It seems well overdue, wouldn’t you say?  To be honest, it was all Tal’s idea [Taliesin Hawke, part-owner of Apostasy/Freedom Music, lead guitarist for Fader].  He got me drunk, what can I say?  I’m very agreeable when I’m drunk.

 

**You seem to be agreeable at any time!..**

What can I say?  It is an artform with me.  One of my many, many talents.

 

**Speaking of the new deal with Apostasy/Freedom, can we talk about El Canto?  Your relationship with your previous label, was…**

...fine, at the start.  It was even successful!  But, you know, these things, they don’t last forever.  Nothing ever does.  And really, it is possible to be… philosophical… about it all now.  I wouldn’t have had anything like the exciting time I’ve had if we hadn’t been dropped, that’s for certain - no Highever Orphan, no Pirate Queen.  [laughs] I would have had to have a different kind of exciting time entirely.  

 

It’s all a matter of saying yes, of believing yes, and then just doing it.  Never believe that something cannot be done.  It’s simply self defeating.

 

**...and things are better with Apostasy/Freedom?**

Oh yes!  Much more fun.  Tal and I get along well, and he’s got some very exciting ideas for the new record.  So it will be good to get into the studio after Fader come off tour.  Very good indeed.  But things are always getting better.  They just have a way of working themselves out.


	8. The Mansion, Freedom/Apostasy; Sundermount; 9:39 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earlgreyer prompted this from me in a five minute writing challenge on tumblr. I still love the idea, can envision it so clearly in my head, so here it is for posterity.

“Hey, stop it, man.  We’ve got enough.”

But Fenris ignores him.  Of course he ignores him, that’s just what Fenris does.   _ Little shit _ , Hawke thinks, but he hits the right buttons, making sure the take is recorded.  He listens carefully, as he has the last nine takes, listening to hear when he should pull up a slider or tone something back.  Wondering what it is Fenris is seeking.  Wondering if he’ll ever find it.  

 

Eventually, Fenris unslings the guitar strap, putting the instrument on it’s stand.  He doesn’t acknowledge Hawke, waving in the booth, just heads for the door back into the studio.  Thumps of footfall down the corridor, then the door opens and Hawke grins at him.  “Pretty good, even if I did…”

“It wasn’t.  We’ll need to retake it.”

Hawke gapes.  “Fen,” he begins, then pauses.  He’s such a delicate flower, so fucking prickly and grim and just so abrasive; but talented, and driven, and without a care in his head for anything that isn’t related to music.  “Fen, you gotta be happy with this.  This is fucking gold.”


	9. Philliam Interviews Krem Aclassi of The Chargers

**So, congratuations are in order, I hear?**

For what?  The induction, or the kid?

 

**Both! Double congratulations!**

[Laughs], I don’t know which news Maryden [Halewell, Philliam correspondent] was more excited about, really.  Adoption is a long process.  And I thought making an album was bad.  But yeah, it’s good news about the induction, I guess.  The ceremony was really crazy - like, it’s so weird to look out when you’re performing and see… I don’t know, Carver Hawke [from Last Warden Standing] and Isabela [from Fader] sitting in the audience.  Felt even weirder, the Chief not being with us for it.  

 

**But the Chargers are playing Skyhold at the same time as Thrown from the Breach.  Any plans for a reunion?**

Nothing official, that’s not really the way we roll.  We opened for Thrown in Wycome too, that was wild.  It was crazy to see him behind that big old kit of his for a different band.  But the Chief’s just… the Chief, you know?  He’s not changing, we haven’t changed.  Well, we’re a bit more chaotic now.  Kinda like being let off the leash a bit.

 

**There was never much clarity around why Bull left the Chargers…**

Well, he never really left.  I mean, I know he drums for them now and stuff, but we talk really regularly.  And he’s been in a lot of bands, he’s been on the scene for a while, but never in the same place for long.  There was no hard feelings, it was nothing like that.  As soon as he knew we were in a place that… y’know, we wouldn’t disband or anything… he was okay with it.  And he was cool, like, really ready to step up and take the plunge, sink his teeth into some new ideas.  It wasn’t a Lies situation, nobody was being kicked out…

 

**Lies is touring at the moment too, right?**

That’s what I heard.

 

**And do you think…**

I’m not gonna answer any questions about what happened between them and the Chief.  That’s his business.

 

**Fair enough.  So the new album [Aftermath] is on… what?  Four singles now?**

[Laughs] Shit, yeah, it’s four.  This album really blew up.  That’s crazy, huh?  For a band that’s still regarded in a lot of ways as like… a joke.  We fly under the radar a lot of the time, but municipal authorities are getting to know when the Chargers are in town, alright!

 

**You guys are getting well known for your antics…**

Oh well… that’s nothing new, y’know.  The Chargers have always been that way.  It was a pain in the ass having to bail out Stitches though…[after his arrest in Redcliffe for public nudity]  Such bullshit…

 

**What was the story there, with Stitches?**

Ah, well.  He’s not really big on clothes, something about letting the skin breathe, how it’s healthier, or something.  I don’t know.  But we had a minder, a local guy, said it would be alright.  Turned out… not so much.

 

**Any plans for that kind of thing at Skyhold?**

Not for me!  I’m not getting my ass out in the freezing snow.  But it’ll be cool to be there; this is our first Skyhold, and y’know, there’ll be a lot of great bands there - I’m looking forward to hanging out with Thrown again, and Bees!Bees!Bees! will be really good too.  It’ll be nice to step up on the big stage, see how it goes.


	10. Varric Tethras Interviews Taliesin Hawke of Fader

**So, Taliesin…**

[laughs] Please, just Tal.  How many times do I have to tell you, Varric?  Taliesin is a ridiculous name, and not even I should be forced to suffer the full brunt of it.

**Alright, Tal.  How’s the tour going?**

Good - you’ve been there for most of it.  This is a dumb question, Varric.

**Fuck off, you dork.  I meant from your point of view.**

Oh, that’s lovely, that is.  Ask me for an interview and then tell me to fuck off!  Adorable.  Its lucky for you I’m planning on stealing that luscious chest hair of yours one day, otherwise I’d never consent to seeing you again.  C’mon, Varric, ask me a real question.

**That is a real question.  How is the tour going, dipshit?**

No-one’s got food poisoning, or been arrested, or got any kind of sexually transmitted disease, or thrown any punches.  Of course, we haven’t been to Rivain, so maybe that’s a trick.  Don’t go to Rivain, kids!  *laughs* No, seriously, it’s been good.  We’ve been catching up with some old friends…

**Oh yeah?  Who’s that?**

Well, I saw the little brother, of course…

**Carver [Hawke]** **still drums for Last Warden Standing, yeah?**

Yes, he does.  And we’re related, so I definitely don’t have to say this, but damn he can drum.  I mean, LWS did bloody well stealing...I mean, borrowing Carv.  Al clearly has very good taste. Actually, it’s probably Stroud, really.  Stroud’s the one with the moustache, isn’t he?  Oh!  And speaking of moustaches, we met Dorian Pavus the other night.  He’s not an old friend, not of mine anyway.  But I rather enjoyed making his acquaintance…

**You sly dog.  I hear he’s kinda shacked up with Thrown from the Breach’s drummer…**

Bull?  Really?  Oh bugger, then I really don’t have a chance…

**Tal, you’re married, and in a committed relationship.  With two different dudes...**

Yes, Varric, but I’m not dead.  *laughs* And they are very different, aren’t they?  My darling boys.  But I’m still allowed to look, even if between Fen and Anders all my groping hands are totally and utterly full.

**Maker’s Hairy Buttcrack, steering this conversation away from your sex life… So, speaking of Thrown, I saw things were a little tense between you and Cullen Rutherford.  What’s the deal about that?**

Next question please.

**No, but really Tal…**

Next question, Varric. 

**Is it to do with Kirk…**

Varric.  Stop it.  I will hex you, you know.  Can we please go back to talking about my sex life?  I like talking about my sex life.  It’s fun, and it doesn’t require me to think about unpleasant things.  Well… most of the time.  Ugh, Varric I see that look on your face.  Stop asking me questions about stupid things that shouldn’t have happened but did happen because stupid Templar sympathetic idiots were doing their dumb ‘punching people proves I have a big dick’ thing, and said events provoked a series of terrible riots in which numerous people died, and necessitated my husband bloody giving up one of the things he’s best at in the world because he’s too fucking scared he’ll be put in that stupid bloody arsing position again.  He won’t be the Voice of All Mages, and I won’t be the Voice of Anders, it’s not fair to either of us.  Now fucking drop it, will you?  

**Yeah, okay.  Okay.  Sorry, man.  I’m sorry.**

That’s alright, you dork.  Come here, let me give you a big hug.  There.  Isn’t that better?  Now we can go back to discussing my sex life.

**Uhh, no. But let’s get back to Carver…**

That’s a cure for discussing one’s sex life if ever there was one…

**I heard you guys had a falling out right before he left Fader to join LWS.  Is that right?**

Andraste’s Holy Garterbelt man, you’re really a sucker for the angst tonight, aren’t you?  No, it is not right, we did not, as you so blithely put it, have a falling out.  We had a bit of a brotherly tiff, but that was months before.  And come on, Varric, you’re a little brother yourself, you know what it’s like with the shadows and the getting out from under them.  I cast a big shadow, and I know that.  And Fader was always my thing, well, mine and Izzy’s.  Carver hadn’t liked the direction that we’d taken it, he’d been vocal about that for a long time.  But he helped us find a replacement in Merrill - ha, though I think that once we found her he didn’t want to leave so badly anymore - and trust me, if he and I would have fought about it, there’s no way he’d be that nice to me.  So… that was a long answer to that question, but no.  Carver and I are brothers.  We fight, certainly.  But we aren’t the kind of brothers who run away from our problems.  We punch each other in the face and then go have a drink.  It’s the Hawke Way.  Now, are we doing a Philliam interview, where I have to talk about all these bloody rumours of who’s shagging who and who’s bloody miffed at someone else, or are we doing an Everite interview where I get to talk about my guitar a lot?  Ask me a question about our music, Varric, I’m dying over here.

**I’m doing this interview for my blog thing, I told you that, Tal.**

You have a  _ blog _ ?!  Oh Maker, save me, what is it called?   _ Wet for Wordsmithing?  Jerk-off Journalism?   _

**Bloody hell.**

_ Quivering Quotes? Sultry, Steamy Sidebar? Erect Elucidations? _

**Bolt from the Blue, you jackass.**

Oh.  That’s… actually quite good.  You’re a clever little shit, aren’t you?

**Sometimes, yeah.  Yeah I am.**

Must have been, to make friends with me, eh?  Eh?

**It was a weak moment, Hawke.**

Well, it was a good decision, either way.  Weak moment or not.


	11. For OCKiss16: an interlude with Taliesin Hawke and Nico Valisti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delightful Earlgreyer allowed me to borrow her OC Nico Valisti for what I thought would be some lusty lip-locking. The results did not turn out the way I expected - this story is set during the tour for the Fader album Broken Circle, which would be the album they tour during the 'Kirkwall incident', as it is referred to in Wastelands. Broken Circle is the last album Fader will produce for about eight years; during the course of the events in Wastelands they are touring Revive.

“Aw, Andraste’s pearly panty-liners,” Hawke mutters, glancing at the man under Zevran’s arm.  Fader have been touring Antiva, and their support on their three dates in Antiva City have come at Isabela’s suggestion - an old friend of hers, his band Crow Blade.  The show had gone well - well, nobody had stormed off mid song in a huff, so that was a bonus - but Taliesin Hawke has found his attention drawn again and again to the drummer Crow Blade have for this particular tour.  He is, simply put, delectable.  Full, sensual lips.  Dark, shoulder length hair.  Eyes full of deep, dark promise.  Hawke’s not sure if it’s narcissism, but surely, he’s not vain enough to think he was  _ that _ good looking?  He chuckles, swinging his legs off the side of the table on which he sits, and says to Zevran, “I’ve always loved Antiva.”

 

“Then, my friend, you have excellent taste, though I cannot help wondering if it is  _ Antiva _ you love or the fine specimens of her citizenry which you are currently gazing upon.” Zevran laughs and puts his feet up on the amplifier, rocking onto the back legs of his chair, wine bottle in one fist.  He crooks an arm over the shoulders of the man next to him, who looks at Hawke and smiles slightly.  Zevran nuzzles into his neck, and the shy smile on the man widens.  He puts a hand on Zevran’s thigh and mutters, “Bello, arrestare! Che solletica…”

 

Zevran laughs a little and kisses the point of the man’s jaw.  He turns his head to look at Hawke, his eyes sparkling with mirth, “Speaking of excellent taste, and fine specimens, this drummer sitting so quietly next to me is rather the find of the age, wouldn’t you say?”

Taliesin waggles his eyebrows, and smirks, “I  _ would _ say.  Obviously.” Then he mentally cringes at himself.  _ Get it together _ , Hawke tells himself crossly,  _ He’s with Zev.  And you’re spoken for.  Besides, he’s probably not interested anyway. _  He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, taking a pull from the bottle closest to him, almost gagging when it happens to be Izzy’s bloody vodka.  “Tal!” she says from behind him, while Merrill giggles, “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Blech, ugh, believe me, that was a mistake, Isabela.  Yeergh, how you can drink that stuff is beyond me…”

“You take one swallow, then another, it goes in the usual fashion, I’d imagine,” the man - Nico?  Yes!  That’s it, Nico Valisti! - says, half a smile on his face.  Hawke is powerless under the force of a smile; of course, he smiles back, and laughs a little, unable to help wondering what that dark hair would look like, spilled out on the pillow, what that calm and slightly accented voice would sound like crying his name.   _ Stop it! _ he tells himself again, and wishes Anders were here.  

 

But tonight has not been a good night, and Anders had gone back to their hotel as soon as the show was over.  Oh, the crowd had not been hostile, nothing like back down in the Marches, but these days the knife edge is ever more apparent.  All the news outlets say war is brewing.  But Fader have been teetering on the brink of collapse for months now, and while Hawke is sure that it’s the tour, and the pressure… He sighs.  He’s looking forward to getting home, back to Kirkwall, shutting Anders and himself inside their home for months after that bloody Kirkwall festival is done with, and not even thinking about the outside world.   _ And I can take care of him.  Maker knows he deserves it. _  And suddenly, it is too much, the tears too close, for everything they’ve lost and lost again.  “Sorry chaps,” Hawke forces himself to say, “But I fear a call of nature is in order.”

 

He gets up, probably too quickly considering the alcohol and lyrium in his system, and staggers slightly.  “Tal, are you..?” Zevran begins, and Hawke grins and laughs and flaps his hand, though it’s hard to see through the film of tears.  “Yeah, Zev.  Never better.”

 

-|||-

 

Taliesin Hawke is not someone anyone would accuse of thinking too much.  He knows his reputation for  _ act now, think later _ , and has cultivated it to a certain degree.  But those few that are close to him know that this is far from true.  If anything, Taliesin thinks too much, or rather, feels too much.  He rubs his eyes, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the tiny backstage mens room.   _ Oh Maker, Maker, what am I doing _ ? he asks himself, and a line from a song he’d heard on the radio that morning recurs to him:  _ I’ve done things unprotected, proceeded to drive home wasted, bought things to win over siblings, I’ve said awful things, such awful things _ . He covers his mouth with his hand, holding his breath, his eyes filling with tears again, but in the end cannot hold it in, and the sob echoes around the enclosed space.   _ Awful things, such awful things _ ricochets around and around in his mind, he cannot get rid of it, he cannot, and here it comes, the price he pays for laughing it off, for sucking it up and sailing along like nothing is wrong.  He sobs again, and then moans, the low sound empty and lonely in the bathroom, rubs his knuckles into his eyes.   _ Anders _ , he thinks,  _ Why do you stick with me?  I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore. _ He sighs, long and loud, then hears a soft voice say his name.

 

“Hawke?  Are you alright?”

Hawke’s eyes widen, then he laughs shakily, and sniffs.  “Never better, Nico!  I’ll… I’ll be out in a second.”  He laughs again, wiping his eyes frantically with the heels of his hands, “I  _ knew _ you lot would be lost without me!”

Nico laughs softly.  Hawke blows out a breath very quietly, praying that his eyes aren’t  _ too  _ red, nothing that he can’t palm off to the lyrium and the booze, but when he opens the door and smiles his best smile at the man standing before him, he sees nothing but sympathy in the mans eyes.  “Tal,” Nico says, very softly, “Is there anything I can do?”

 

Hawke swallows.  This beautiful, charming man is obviously a kind soul as well.  “Just…” is all he manages to say before the tears are back, and Maker, his chest hurts, his shoulders hurt, everything hurts and nothing is good anymore, everything ends, everyone dies.  Suddenly, Nico’s arms are around him, here in this cold backstage bathroom, chipped linoleum on the floor, the smell of urinal cakes and old farts in the air.  Taliesin gives himself up to it, and cries into Nico’s shoulder, unabashed, here with this stranger.  “Well, that was… unexpected,” he struggles out eventually, and hiccups, then laughs.  “I’ve totally wrecked your t-shirt.”

 

“It’s not a concern,” Nico tells him gently, though he has barely looked at the bleary damp patch fringed with black mascara, marring the perfection of his otherwise still pristine white t-shirt.  “The world is full of t-shirts.”  His brows contract a little, his face still full of concern, and Hawke’s eyes rove over the hoop in his ear, the luster of his hair, those full, kissable lips.  He exhales sharply, and lowers his eyes.  “Look, I’m sorry I got weird...”

“I heard about your loss, from Zevran,” Nico begins, his voice still soft, and Hawke stiffens.  “I’m so sorry.  It is so hard to lose a mother, and in such circumstances.”

 

Hawke’s throat constricts, and his lips part.  Without being aware of it, he is panting a little, his heart feels like it’s about to burst.  Nico’s cheek, if he could just… Without thinking any more, he puts his lips against the skin there, just at the corner of Nico’s soft, sweet mouth, kisses him, breathes in the smell of him; salt and sweet and bitter, like tears.  “Thank you,” Hawke tells him, “Thank you, for… being so nice.”

  
Without looking at Nico further, Hawke takes his hands from the other mans waist, and walks away.  He does not look back.


	12. For OCKiss16: an interlude with Taliesin Hawke and Cillian Trevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More delightful people! xhermionedanger allowed me the joy of writing her adorable Cillian Trevelyan getting a little kiss from Taliesin Hawke. This story is set after the events of chapter 25, which is still upcoming as I'm writing this, but don't be alarmed - you can read it without it giving any of the game away!

It’s been awhile since he’s been up and out this early.  Last night had been fun, Maker, it had been wild; he’d always suspected Pentaghast kept things pretty tight, but the way she’d been in the studio… she’d been on fire.  Taliesin Hawke has been in the music business for rather a long time now, and he’s never seen anyone come close to matching Fenris on guitar.  The thought still brings a smile to his face.  But Maker, his head pounds, and his stomach swirls and lurches as if preparing to give its contents up to the greater good at any moment.  Whoever said aging was a good and natural process clearly had no idea what they were talking about.

 

Coffee.  That’s what he needs.  Well, no, that’s not what he needs at all; he needs rest, and water, and to reply to the five emails and three voicemails he’s got from Aveline in the space of a day and a half.  He’d left the day-to-day management of Apostasy/Freedom Music to her while he was away, and usually, she’s a doll, but… He huffs out a breath, hearing the crunch of glass underneath his boots on the footpath.  Haven looks weird at this time of the morning - something about the light, or maybe this is the way the world always looks in the morning.  He really can’t remember.

 

He follows his nose.  The bitter, chocolate fragrance of roasting coffee beans from a little café leads him down a laneway, away from the main street, into the gloom between two tall buildings.  He sighs, feeling his shoulders relax already.  Sternly reminding himself to bring tea back for Anders at least and something, anything with apples in it for Fenris, he pushes the door open.  The place is tiny, nothing more than a few titchy tables and a short bar, and it is virtually abandoned.  The barista looks up, pushes her glasses up her nose and smiles. 

 

He orders espresso, and sits at the little bar as the machine hisses and rumbles.  The place is quiet; his ears perk up and he smiles as he recognises the song on the speakers.   _ I will roam and I will ramble, ‘til my heart no longer craves… _ sings the disembodied voice, and Hawke chuckles.   _ You’ll be roaming a bloody long time then mate, _ he thinks, and then feels eyes upon him.  He shakes his head, looking about him, and sees a young man sitting a little further along the bench.  “Sorry,” he says, beaming, “Lost in thought.”

 

The young man raises an eyebrow, rather quizzically, and narrows his eyes.  Hawke wonders if he might now be in for the ‘don’t I know you from somewhere?’ speech - his eyes have fallen on the mans guitar case.  He rubs a cheek tiredly, then smiles.  “What have you got in there?”

“A guitar,” the man states cooly, and Hawke cannot help it, he laughs.  

“ _ Really? _ Come now.  Who carries something so pedestrian as  _ a guitar _ in their guitar case?  Or maybe you’re just carrying the case around to pick up girls?”  Hawke grins wolfishly, “I hear they like that sort of thing.”

 

“Maybe they do,” the man tells him, and Hawke cannot help but note the nervous tap of the fingers on the bench, the way the man arches his head away, casts his eyes down for a moment, then back up, directing their gaze at Hawke.  His blonde hair is styled carefully back from his temples, though Hawke is mostly guessing at that, because there is a slouchy beanie crammed down over his hair.  His eyes are a bright, intelligent blue, the sweep of his cheekbones and nose rather aristocratic.  Everything about him seems designed to pull the eye away from his face - his bright red Converse sneakers, oversized plaid shirt worn open with a plain white t-shirt and several long necklaces. Hawke smiles, narrows his eyes, and asks, “Marcher, are you?”

 

“Ostwick,” the man tells him cautiously, then accepts his steaming take out cup of something or other from the barista.  

“I see,” Hawke says, then he can wait no longer and burbles, “I’m from Kirkwall myself - well, not originally, wasn’t born there, but it’s my home now.  But you know, travelled around a bit with the band and stuff.”  He waves a hand airly and smiles, “The world is my home, really.”  He lunges forward, hand outstretched toward the young man, nearly springing out of his seat, and the mans eyes narrow again, even as he takes the hand and shakes it.  “Taliesin Hawke, so nice to meet you.  And you are..?”

 

“Late.” 

But despite the brusque response, the man smiles as he picks up his guitar case, and then his take out cup.  He lingers a little, and Hawke takes the queue to ask, “If I wouldn’t be making a nuisance of myself… may I walk with you?”

The man pauses, considering, then nods.  He turns his back, and Hawke follows, half finished coffee and full blown hangover forgotten.

 

-|||-

 

It turns out the young man is a Trevelyan.   _ Cillian _ , to be precise.  It’s rather lovely, and Hawke can’t stop rolling it around in his mind,  _ cillian cillian kill-ee-an, cillian _ , until it’s become music, a rhythm all its own.  When Cillian tells him he’s heading to a rehearsal, however, Hawke almost stops in his tracks.

 

“Rehearsal?  You  _ are _ the Maker’s chosen.  At this bloody hour?”

Cillian smiles, laughs a little under his breath.  “Perks of being an insomniac, I suppose.  I don’t sleep well, and it helps to have the space available any time I need it.  Though, Taliesin, I’d hardly call this early.”

“Please, ugh, call me Tal.  Taliesin is a deeply unfortunate and ironic name on me, and I’d prefer never to hear it uttered.”

Cillian laughs again, a quiet sound.  Hawke rather likes it, smiles when he wonders how many times he could elicit that sound from this man.  It’s like water, that laughter, like water over the stones on the bed of a fast flowing river; the rush of it makes his heart beat a little faster.   _ He’s just a kid, _ Hawke chastises himself,  _ Don’t be ridiculous, old man. _

 

He clears his throat and asks, “And what, pray tell, is the name of this band you belong to?”

Cillian looks at him, then quietly states, “Veilfire.  We’re playing at Skyhold, rather down the card from Fader though.”

Hawke points his finger and widens his eyes, then crows, “So you do know who I am!  I knew it!  This cool and collected look was just a cunning façade!”  He laughs, claps Cillian on the shoulder, “Oh dear, oh dear, you had me going for a moment there…”

 

Cillian laughs again, raising his eyebrow.  He lets Hawke finish his chuckling, and then tells him, “Just because I knew who you were, doesn’t mean I want to make a big deal about it.  You seem nice.  But… it must get tiresome, everyone knowing who you are all the time.”  He pauses, and Hawke see Cillian flash a quick look at him.  “Considering everything that’s happened.”

 

“Yes.  Well.  I suppose it does.”  Hawke takes a deep breath, bites his lip for a moment, and then lets it out again.  “Where is this practice of yours, then?”

Cillian smiles, and his gentle blue eyes hold Hawke’s deep brown, just for a moment.  “Not far.”

 

-|||-

 

Cillian isn’t as late as he’d expected, obviously.  The other members of his band are yet to arrive at the slightly crummy practice space, a rented room above an Orlesian bakery, the scent of burnt sugar and yeast rising through the vents, making Hawke hungry.  It is dingy, and dim, but there has been an attempt at making it more welcoming done - a few posters on the wall, an elderly sound system, an eight track recording device, and several old amplifiers and microphones, a threadbare sofa.  As Cillian walks across to a table to put his guitar case away, Hawke cannot help but smile, so much does the space remind him of Fader’s early beginnings, deep in the slums of Kirkwall’s Lowtown.  They had practiced in his uncle’s garage, until Gamlen had kicked a hole in Carver’s bass drum.  “Silly man,” Hawke mutters, and Cillian turns abruptly to ask, “What?”

 

Hawke shakes his head and says, “Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Just remembering old times.”  He takes one last look around the space and picks up a battered Samick guitar, half-restrung, the ends hanging off the headstock.  “May I?”

When Cillian nods, Hawke leans against the arm of the old sofa and lets his fingers rove over the strings, picking out a melody.  It sounds vaguely familiar, and so he toys with it, wondering where it comes from.  Eventually, all that he knows is the movement of the strings under his fingers, the sharp bite of the metal against the calluses on his fingertips, the vibration of the body of the guitar against his own.  It’s a blues riff, sad and slow, but hopeful too.  He tremeloes a string a little, hearing the peal of it in the virtually empty space, then walks it back a little, pausing, still unsure of what the song actually is.  Then, in the half a beat where he almost makes the decision to stop playing, Cillian sings.

 

_ How many times... have you heard one man say... if I had money... I would do things my way _ .  He has closed his eyes, standing two paces away from where Hawke leans.  And Hawke knows, he knows the song, makes the guitar moan in response to the moan in Cillian’s voice.  He keeps his eyes closed to sing, hands relaxed at his sides, almost as if he has forgotten Hawke’s very existence, almost as if he has forgotten the world.  His face is serene, calm, and the power of his voice shines through the motif that the guitar under it is making, sometimes leading the guitars melody, sometimes following.   _ The wealthiest person… is a pauper at times… Compared to the man… with a satisfied mind. _  He shifts from foot to foot, still not opening his eyes, and Hawke watches his face move as he sings, the lift of his eyebrows at the higher notes, the way the nostrils flare slightly.  He’s beautiful right now, beautiful in the way that an isolated outcrop of rock, continually battered by the sea is beautiful - alone, but not lonely, delicate and sere, full of strange wonder.  Hawke feels a thickening in his sinuses as he watches Cillian sing this old song, and he blinks and sighs, trying to get a hold of himself.   _ One thing’s for certain… when it comes my time… I’ll leave this old world… with a satisfied mind.   _ Each sustain is nuanced with a very slight vibrato to the voice, enough to make the listener well aware of the vulnerability of the singer.  And then, he hits that pitch on the last phrase, and it’s all Hawke can do not to simply drop the guitar and stride the two paces to Cillian and take him in his arms.   _ It’s alright, _ is what he wants to say,  _ it all comes out okay. _

 

The last notes of the song fade, and Cillian opens his eyes and clears his throat.  He looks so awkward, and Hawke smiles at him in wonder.  “That was beautiful,” he says, “Just…” and then he does, he puts the guitar on the sofa, rises quickly and takes the two steps it takes to cross the breach to Cillian.  Cillian stiffens in surprise when Hawke hugs him, and then laughs when Hawke kisses his forehead, relaxing slightly.  “Beautiful,” Hawke mutters, and smiles, not quite relinquishing his hold.  “Do you have demos recorded?”

Cillian nods, his expression somewhat suspicious, and tells him, “They need mastering.”

“When you’re ready, send them to me.  Apostasy Music.  Don’t be shy about it, Cillian.  Send them to me.”  He kisses Cillian once again on the forehead, and Cillian snorts a laugh. 

 

Hawke takes the hint, for once in his life, and steps back from the other man.  He smiles again, inclining his head, and says, “Thank you.  It’s been rather lovely.  But I mean it.  Don’t be a stranger.”  He fumbles in his pockets, comes up with nothing, then spies a red marker on the table next to Cillian’s guitar case.  Quickly, he crosses the room, snatches the marker and goes to his knees, crawling underneath the table. He feels Cillian’s eyes on him, but makes a show of being busy scrawling on the unvarnished underside of the wood.  

“There,” he says, finally crawling out, “My contacts.  You can lose a business card, but you might find it difficult to lose a table.”  He grins at Cillian again, and sniffs.  “Better get back.  Thank you.  Again.  It was lovely to meet you.”  He scratches his head, smile never wavering, taking in a last glimpse of this young man as he listens with his minds ear to that vibrant, hopeful, strong voice.   _ A satisfied mind, indeed, _ he thinks, and turns, striding from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs referenced here by their lyrics are 'The Haunted and the Harrowed' by the Decemberists and 'Satisfied Mind' as performed by Jeff Buckley.


	13. That Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Anders Appreciation Week 2016, this is about how Anders left the band Highever Orphan for Kirkwall and Rebel Warden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate having to do this, but just to be sure that I'm not confusing everyone - Fortress is the name of the label that most of the Warden bands in this story come under, until the Venatori label comes along. So, in this case, Highever Orphan, Rebel Warden and Last Warden Standing are the 'marquee' bands.

It’s not a club.  It’s not supposed to be; even the walls know it.  It’s just an abandoned fort, up on a hill, an hours drive from the city.  Amarathine’s bleak, man, but not as bleak as Kinloch, where it rained all the time except when it snowed, or Denerim, with its bombed out structures and air tainted by the pollutants of heavy industry.   _ Moving up in the world, Anders! _ he thinks to himself, and grimaces.

 

He leans against the wall next to Velanna, passing the cigarette back to her.  This is the first gig that Highever Orphan have performed without him in a long time.  His stomach twists - impossible to say which emotion is stronger, the hope or the worry or the sadness.  He’s left bands before, and under worse circumstances, but Gwen was sweet, a rare thing.  She’s a kick ass bassist too, and a good singer, no matter what she might tell you.  He smiles, remembering when she’d asked him to join: “Please, Maker, please, ‘Ders, you gotta save me from myself, dude... Fuckin’ Fortress want an album in three months, and if I gotta sing on it again, they’ll probably drop us.”

 

He had laughed, “They’ve heard you sing before, Cousland.  They know what they’re getting in for.” He’d grinned cheekily and told her, “They’ve probably got someone already lined up to overdub your crap voice with.”

“Yeah, I know.  It’s probably you, so we should cut out the middle man, save them a hassle.  And your lyrics are better’n anything I could ever come up with,” she had wheedled, and then smirked, “Don’t you forget its Cousland-Theirin, these days, honeybunch.”

“How could I forget?” he had asked, grinning and rolling his eyes, “Oh Al! Let’s buy matching bass guitars!  Oh Al, I love the way you rip all the sleeves off your t-shirts! Oh Al...”

“Shurrup,” she had growled, though he had seen the curl of her lip, seen the happiness in her eyes.  He had smiled and shook his head, “Yeah, okay.  I’ll do it.”

“Bloody brilliant!” Gwen had crowed, and thrown herself at him, hugging him tight.  “Knew you would,” she had said into his chest, and he had rubbed her shaved head and hugged her back, smiling.  Highever Orphan is a good band, they’re staying as true to their punk roots as they can, despite the signing to Fortress Records; not like the Voidheads and the Hoard and Pile of Filth anyway.  Still, there is that little voice, somewhere deep inside him, always whispering  _ Karl, Karl, Karl.   _ Even though he's told himself that Karl has almost certainly moved on by now, he can't resist one last look, just to know; he leaves for Kirkwall in 24 hours, and then to Hossburg for the new gig a week after that.   And then there is always the worry -  always wondering how long he'd be allowed to stay in one place before he'd have to leave.   _ Move on from him, _ he tells it, and, almost in the same breath,  _ I’ll stay this time. _

 

But he can’t.  Watching Gwen as she approaches the microphone, he smiles, sees how nervous she is, in spite of the aggressive front.  Velanna nudges him, and he takes the cigarette, sees it has been smoked down to the filter.  Bastard.  He lets it drop from his fingers.  Feels weird, this, this not being on stage with them; almost like watching an old lover get married to someone else.  There isn’t a stage in this not-club, just an area where there are amps set up, and power cords everywhere, running to a gennie out the back.  Will it be like this in Kirkwall?   _ There’s always somewhere like this _ , he thinks to himself, and in spite of the moment, he smiles.

 

It’s a good set, and the crowd are keen.  Orphan haven’t played a little gig like this in a long time - they can fill pretty good sized venues now.  Anders is watching the crowd though, looking at the way they move as one; a hive mind almost.  His eyes never rest on one face for long, though he sees people he recognises - Nate, the ex-drummer for Poisoned Legacy, who is now writing for Philliam on the local scene; Kris, who always looks like death, though he can play guitar like someone possessed; Og, who seems metal as fuck and a bit of a git, but is actually really generous - he’s the guy who comes every week to these things and helps the bands set up, keeping the generator working, making sure everyone always has a drink in their hands.

 

It’s a good scene, and he’ll be sorry to leave it.  But there is always that voice, that little voice,  _ Karl, Karl, Karl, you’re not safe here, there is no safety, Karl, Karl, Karl, don’t be fooled into complacency, Karl, Karl, Karl.   _ And he knows it is right, knows there is only one way to silence that voice, he knows what he has to do.   _ Moving up in the world _ , he thinks, and sighs, even as the crowd surges, even as the noise of the bass rattles the old structure, even as he wishes it were otherwise.  One day, things will change.  But that day is not today.


	14. Fortress Records Press Conference: 9:45 Dragon

Alistair pants a little, sick with nerves, and nods to Fergus and Anora.  He can hardly bear to look at the man - he looks so much like  _ her _ .  Gwennie.  His Gwennie; Gwendoline Cousland-Theirin.  “No word, then?” he asks, out of habit really, knowing how much it must hurt Fergus, unable to help himself.  He shakes his head, glances at Fergus and says, “Sorry.”

 

Fergus shakes his head, mirroring the gesture.  Anora shoves her hands in her pockets and sighs.  There’s no love lost between them, but it means a lot that she’s here.  For Fergus, for Gwennie, if not for him.  When Alistair glances at him again, he sees that Fergus looks exhausted.  Alistair tries to smile, and then one of the Fortress admins is there telling them it’s time to go, time to make the statement.

 

They troop out to the dias, the lights of the cameras flashing.  Gwennie’s big news, obviously - but then, she always was.  Alistair smiles a little, nods to a couple of the reporters he recognises.  He pulls the chair out, sits down, looks out into the sea of faces.  “...Will make a brief statement,” the rep tells the room, all these nameless faces, and Alistair sniffs, feels the sting of tears and smiles.  The room quiets instantly, the silence tense, awful.

 

“My wife, Gwendoline Cousland-Theirin,” Alistair begins, speaking into the microphone, and then has to stop.  His throat constricts, and he feels Fergus put a hand on his shoulder, give it a gentle squeeze.  He swallows, tries to clear his throat, looks down to watch the words on the paper before him swim.  He takes a breath.  “My wife, Gwendoline Cousland-Theirin, lead singer and bassist of the band Highever Orphan, has been missing since Thursday.  If anyone has any information that can help us to find her, please,  _ please _ , call the number on your screen, call your local Guard… please.  And… and Gwennie…”  He nearly breaks at that, feels his stomach twist, can hardly breathe, “Gwennie, please.  Please come back.  Come back, baby.  I love you, we love you.  Noodle loves you too.”

  
He chokes a laugh then, thinking of the dog and covers his face, feels the tears wet and hot on his hands, his cheeks.  There are the red flashes behind his eyes as his photograph is taken, Al Theirin, punk rock legend crying, bawling like a little kid right there for everyone to see.  Fuck them.  Fuck them all.  All he wants is Gwennie,  _ his Gwennie _ , back - her laughter, her voice, her warmth in their bed.  He can almost hear her,  _ Aw Al, you great twonk, c’mon, don’ cry, I’m orright… _ But he knows.  He hopes, but he knows.  He pulls his hands away from his tearstreaked face, oblivious to the reporters and their questions, to the flashes and shouting, and shoves back his chair.  Then he gets up and walks off the dias, leaving the others behind.


	15. Honnleath Fete: 9:27 Dragon

He laughs to cover how the moment stretches, bleeds around them.  The lights of the fête flow into one another, the music distorted, blurred.  Samson rubs his arm, feels the itch of the trace where the needle had been and laughs again, sniffs.  “Didn’t mean it,” he says, not daring to look at Rutherford, who will no doubt look daffy as fuck in the wake of the words which he’d blurted stupidly in the heat of the moment, there after Rutherford had kissed him in the photobooth.  They’d stumbled out of the cramped space only a moment beforehand and now stand, facing each other, still, silent, awkward.  A part of him still can’t believe it - Rutherford!  Kissed _him_! Had taken him by the back of the neck, lips warm, sticky with candyfloss, the smell of him, and then Rutherford had _let him stick a_ _hand down his pants_ and oh, Maker...

 

Oh, Maker.  What is he going to do?  He’s said it now.   _ Love you, Len _ .  

 

Fuck.

 

But Rutherford is only quiet until finally, Samson can take no more.  “I mean, who could love a fuck up like you, right?” He laughs again, clutching his arms around himself.  The night is warm, the lyrium flowing through his veins now making him warmer, and fuck if he doesn’t want to rub his lips - but whether it is to rub Cullen’s touch off or in is a question he doesn’t dare look at too closely.  Instead he smirks, tosses his hair off his shoulders.  “Just stupid.  Anyway,” he sniffs, “You were the one that kissed me, so if anything, that makes…”

 

“Lee,” Rutherford says softly, and Samson glances at him.  Rutherford isn’t looking at him either, and Samson swallows, suddenly nervous.  Is this it then?  He’s gone and fucked it up, he’s gonna have to find a new band, or at least a new bass player, and might have lost his best friend, all because he couldn’t keep his big stupid mouth…

“Lee,” Rutherford repeats, and stretches out his hand.  For a second, just a second, he holds Samson’s hand, the shrieks and laughter of children around them, the bright moonlight paled into insignificance by the carnival’s brittle shimmer and flash.  Then the warmth of the contact is gone, and Samson looks at Rutherford, sees he is rubbing the back of his neck, looking at the ground.  For a moment longer, they say nothing, and then Samson smirks.  “Yeah.  Alright then.”

  
He nods, knowing he will always want more; it’s his nature, to want more than he can have.  Still, there is this new thing now, this new feeling within him - and for once, it’s not the lyrium, not the night around them.  Just the feel of Cullen on his lips, the smell of burnt sugar and sweat, and for a moment, he felt like there was more.  There was enough. 


	16. Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon [Hole in the Wall #1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding a certain hole in a certain wall, which may or may not have been made by a certain Hawke's fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a 'straight to Tumblr' thing, and only remembered it now (thanks to snarry-splitpea, who originally prompted it, and also reminded me of it's existence). Snaz prompted it with this ['imagine your otp' picture](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/140139491889/snarry-splitpea-freddietomlinson-in-your-otp) of a framed hole in a wall. And since I don't really have an OTP, I got two Wastelands 'verse stories out of it.

It happens after a terrible fight, a real stand up screaming match with a promoter for the Kirkwall festival, which is to open in a few days - it’s the last date on the tour for Fader’s album _Broken Circle_ , and they’ve been hoping to enjoy a few days spent quietly in Kirkwall.  Not likely - the city is on edge, delirious under the weight of a summer that’s seen droughts and strange illnesses, a high profile trial which has split the city, allegations of massive corruption in government.   Tal’s tense all the way home, Anders can feel it in the way he holds his hand, can see it in the hunch of his shoulders.  He’s wound way too tight.  Fenris is on the sofa when then come in, noodling over his acoustic, and he takes one look at Tal, sees the set of Anders’ jaw and makes himself scarce.  

Tal paces through the house like a caged tiger, waiting for anything he can use as an excuse.  Carver’s away, touring with Last Warden Standing; otherwise he’s the first person that Anders would have called.  Instead, he goes about making dinner, well, microwaving the takeouts from last night, reasoning that Tal will either leave or he’ll eat something and calm down.

No one’s remembered it’s All Souls Day tomorrow until Fenris makes the mistake of turning on the news channel; he’s crept back into the lounge, hating that Tal’s mood effects the whole house, wondering how drunk he was when he finally agreed to co-habit with these beautiful assholes.  He sits, hunched, his guitar between his knees, really thinking about the tour he’s about to embark on when Tal, who had been walking downstairs - finally summoned by the smell of re-heated Nevarran cooking - utters a kind of choked scream and drives his fist into the wall.  

“…the fuck?” Anders says from the kitchen, sounding like he has a mouthful, and Tal is yelling, Fenris can’t make out what he’s saying, but it sounds like, “Those _cunts_ , those  _fucking cunts,_ don’t even care who killed Mum, too busy parading..!” And he looks at the television, sees the Grand Cleric waving piously from her balcony, welcoming the faithful to the Chantry for the vigil on All Souls Day, the day when Andrastans over the whole of Thedas pray for their dead.  Then he is off his seat, the black guitar falls onto the pale beige carpet, and they’re both there, getting in each others way a little, he and Anders, trying to comfort Tal as he sits on the stairs, cradling his hand and crying for his mother.

Two weeks later, Tal frames the hole in the plasterboard.  He puts a little plaque underneath which makes Anders purse his lips and nod, while Fenris shrugs and shakes his head.  It reads, _Never Forget_ : _First All Souls After, mixed media (hatred, plasterboard and fist)._


	17. Bull's Apartment, Wycome, 9:46 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when an over-eager mage meets an over eager Tal-Vashoth while trying to avoid art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the earlier chapter for notes on the origin of this story - properly, it should be read after reading the _coda chapter to Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise, as that's where it sits in the proper chronology. Suffice to say I wrote this in a 'straight to Tumblr' thing, snarry-splitpea prompted it with this ['imagine your otp' picture](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/140139491889/snarry-splitpea-freddietomlinson-in-your-otp) of a framed hole in a wall.

For one thing, it’s Dorian’s knee which goes through the wall.  Bull is the one that frames it, and since it’s his apartment, Dorian can’t really tell him not to, but Maker, he _really_ wants to.  They’re both aware that they don’t have a lot of time - in Wycome, there are always people to see and places to be seen at - but it’s been so long.  In the car-ride from the airport to Bull’s place, Bull’s hand had been toying with Dorian almost as soon as he’d pulled off the curb.  At first, just little circles, played under his ear, along his neck, gliding over his fingers.  The hand strays closer to Dorian’s mouth, and he knows he shouldn’t, Bull is _driving_ , but he can’t resist it.  He moves his head to one side, taking the tips of two fingers into his mouth, sucking on them for a brief moment, then releasing them.  His hand goes under Bull’s palm, just stroking it, feeling the slight ridge of callous which drumming for so long has given him. “Kadan,” Bull growls, and Dorian smirks. 

“Yes?” he asks innocently, and licks Bull’s suspended hand again.

From then, Bull is merciless.  He drives one handed, using the other to first fondle Dorian through his tight purple pants (worn in honour of the occassion - they are the tightest pants he owns), and then fumble at the fly.  Dorian helps him, but he is 

so

hard, it’s been so long, it feels like aeons, and of course he doesn’t want to come on _or_ in his pants, but he will, Bull will make him, and isn’t it just, well, just rather lovely?  Lovely to give it all up, to watch the world go wizzing past the window and let Bull engulf him, bring him to the brink and back again?

But Bull has too much control for that.  He guides the car - it’s huge, Dorian doesn’t know what kind it is, but he understands the appeal to Bull - down into the parking garage.  Dorian sighs, and tries to do up his fly, cannot over his erection and settles for fluffing his oversized t-shirt out over the top.  “Kadan, fuck, that’s so hot,” Bull murmurs, “You walkin’ through the building, all hard for me.  Shit,” he mutters and grins, his nostrils flaring.

They make it to the elevator, and then Dorian goes to Bull, straddling his thigh and palming him through his loose sweatpants.  “Dorian,” Bull murmurs, and Dorian feels him breathe in, scenting him almost, and he grins.  He grips Bull, already half-hard, and then purses his lips, smirking as the lift chimes and opens into Bull’s apartment.

As soon as this happens, Bull lifts him, carries him bodily over the threshold of the lift, kissing Dorian’s neck as Dorian arches his hips into Bull, just on the cusp of control, tipping over the edge rapidly, blissful at how easy, how wonderful it feels.  “Can’t make it,” Bull tells him huskily, “Wanna fuck you on the stairs.”

Dorian murmurs, “Yes please,” and grins again as Bull puts his lips to the skin of his neck, the scrape of teeth, the urgency in every motion.  Bull begins to climb, and neither of them really know if its Bull’s knee which gives out, or the distraction of the moment, or some odd fluke, but he stumbles.  “Bull!” Dorian has enough time to say, enough time to regret the hole that they’re almost certainly going to put in that oh, Maker, is it a Rothko? _Hope not_ , Dorian thinks, and then his knee is hurting and Bull is laughing with relief.

“Shit, kadan.  Shit, are you alright?” is all he says as he looks at the damaged wall, as they sit on the stairs.  Bull’s eyes are still streaming with mirth and he wipes them, as he looks at Dorian. There is now a hole about three inches out from the frame of the canvas, and Dorian rolls his eyes.  He conjures an ice glyph, applies it to his knee and says sarcastically, “Oh, don’t worry about me, amatus.  I knew I’d be getting fucked in some way on the stairs, you did warn me.  I just didn’t realise it would be my _knee.”_

Several weeks later, Bull sends a picture to his phone.  The hole is framed, and Dorian squints, then has to zoom in to read the caption Bull has placed under it.  And when he does, he exhales, and smiles and rolls his eyes; _Performance piece_ , Bull has titled it,  _Collective work, mixed media (knee, plasterboard and a surfeit of enthusiasm)._


	18. 'Chez Hawke', Kirkwall, 9:46 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was written for OC Kiss Week, and again features the utterly adorable Cillian Trevelyan. Cillian is the lead guitarist for the band Veilfire, and he is the creation of the incomparable HermioneDanger.

“Cillian Trevelyan, you utter beast,” Taliesin Hawke laughs, “I swear, you get more good looking by the day, and it simply isn’t fair.  It’s blood magic, isn’t it?”  He sidles closer to the younger man and nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, “You can tell me.”

 

Cillian smirks and shakes his head.  He’s far too used to Taliesin by now to take anything he says seriously.  For months, Cillian has been promising to visit Kirkwall, until finally Taliesin had gotten sick of it and simply bought him plane tickets.  “Fair’s fair,” Taliesin had told him over a shoddy Skype connection, “I saw you in your element at Haven.  Think of it as a birthday gift or something if you really must.”

“Tal, I really…”

“It’s done, Cilli, and I won’t hear another word.  You can change the tickets, I made sure of that, but you can’t refund them, so sucks to be you, you’re coming for a visit.  By the way, Veilfire’s booked for the fifteenth through to the thirtieth, and poor you, but you get me and Fenris…”

 

And with that, the conversation had deviated into the path of the album that Veilfire would cut with Apostasy Music.  Cillian looks around himself at the apartment, then notices that Taliesin is looking at him carefully.  “Cilli?  Are you alright?”

 

His toes curl inside his sneakers, though he feels the corners of his mouth lift in a smile.  “Of course,” he says, keeping his tone light, “Of course I am.”  He puts his guitar case down, and asks, “Is just here alright?  Your dog won’t get it, will she?”

“Macha’s pretty smart, but even she’s not smart enough to grow thumbs, you dear thing,” Taliesin smirks, and shifts the handle of Cillian’s bag in his grip.  For a moment longer, he looks at Cillian, and there is weight there, and concern, so much so that Cillian cannot stand it any longer.  “Did you bring me all this way only to have me stand in your doorway, Hawke?”

 

Taliesin laughs.  “When you make such a beautiful sculpture, why not? But if you insist on seeing the rest of the flat, then come on.”  He gestures with the hand not holding the bag, beginning to move, and Cillian follows him.

 

“Where are your darlings?” Cillian asks as he follows Hawke down the corridor, “And speaking of Macha, where is she?”

As if to answer, there is a scrabbling noise and a loud whimper from behind a door on the left.  Taliesin grins over his shoulder and says, “I knew she’d jump on you the moment you arrived, so I put her in her room.  I wanted you all to myself, because I’m basically a greedy bastard.  Fen’s finishing up the mastering of that new Silent Sisters album, the one I was telling you about.  And Anders is…”  Taliesin pauses and purses his lips, his expression darkening, then says simply, “Out.  With Cole.  It’s his last day here before he flies back to Llomerryn.”

“Oh.” So there is still jealousy there.  Cillian has to suppress the urge to sigh, then asks, “So I really do have you all to myself?”

 

“That you do, for a few hours at least,” Taliesin tells him, immediately brightening.  He reaches the end of the corridor, and pushes open a door, beckoning Cillian inside.  “Here we are, sorry about the boxes in the corner.”  He turns around, puts Cillian’s bag on the bed, and grins, opening his arms wide.  “Welcome to chez Hawke!  Hot and cold running drama, beautiful views over the polluted Bay of Chains, dog smell comes free with every stay over thirty minutes or so.”  Taliesin laughs, then puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head, smile sliding off his face.  “Are you sure you’re alright, Cilli?”

 

For a moment, Cillian cannot pull his own smile on fast enough, and he feels the words close.   _ No,  _ he thinks,  _ you don’t need to burden him with this, you don’t get to do that.  You hardly know him!  Be professional! _  But for all his admonishments, he can’t, he feels his control slipping, and his breath, Maker, it feels as if it is stopped up in his lungs, he can’t breathe, he can’t  _ breathe _ , all he sees is Marcus’ face and how much he would have liked it here, how close they are now to their dream, but Marcus is gone, he’s gone and never coming back, and then Taliesin’s arms are there, around him, and without thinking, Cillian pushes his face up, forward, his lips meeting Taliesin’s - not looking for anything more than comfort as his hands go to Taliesin’s back, even as he pulls him closer.  

 

For a moment, the kiss deepens and the possibility of something more dances in the air around them.  Taliesin tastes of cigarettes and something sweet, and Cillian feels his fingernails scrape the skin of his back through his t-shirt.  He pants a breath, wanting and not wanting at the same time, and then Taliesin pulls back, staring at him, blinking.

The atmosphere feels leaden, and Cillian drops his eyes from Taliesin’s shocked gaze.  He pulls out of Taliesin’s embrace, ready to take his bag and go, preparing to run, not even bothering to frame the phrases he’ll use when Taliesin reaches out suddenly and takes him by the hand.

 

“Let go,” Cillian tells him crossly, but Taliesin tightens his grip.  “Let go, I said!  Tal, Maker, don’t make this…this...”

But Taliesin is smiling, and Cillian stutters to silence in the face of it.  The smile is so soft, so fond, and in spite of everything, Cillian finds himself smiling back cautiously.  “My dear boy,” Taliesin says softly, and sighs.  “I think I know what that was.  My dearest, silly, beautiful, lonely boy, I should have bought you here earlier.  I’m so sorry I’ve been such a shitty friend.”  He sighs again and then smiles winningly.  “Come on.  Come through to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Cillian begins to stammer something along the lines of how Taliesin isn’t a shitty friend, he’s really not, and Maker, he’s so sorry he’s come here and taken advantage, but yes, oh yes, he is so lonely and what is he doing… but Taliesin smiles softly at him, squeezes his hand, and only nods as if he already knows.  


	19. Antiva City, 9:32 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the worst things happen to Fader in Antiva City. Including arrested girlfriends and lonely birthdays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the end of part two of Holy Holy Holy will tell this story from Taliesin's perspective, I feel like it's good to post this here and now. Plus merribela, and let's face it - it's always a good time for merribela.

The Antivan sunlight filters through the dirty windows of the hotel room, and Merrill sits, staring into space.  Anders has gone, finally driven out by the smallness of the room, the fact that he can do nothing except wait while Aveline and that funny elf - what was his name?  Oh, that’s right, Zevran - are down at the Guard station, trying to get Izzy and Hawke off the charges.  She knows how he feels, all cooped up here.  He wouldn’t let her with him though; she’s been sick, food poisoning or something.  “Andraste’s knickerweasles,” he’d grumped at her, and she’d laughed, though she’d still felt her stomach rolling unpleasantly, “There’s no way you’re in any state to go wandering around Antiva City.  I’ll call if there’s news.  I promise.”  And then he was shrugging on his coat, slamming the door behind him.  It’s alright.  She knows he only puts up with her for Hawke, for the sake of the band.  And she doesn’t mind, not really.  But… It’s no way to spend your birthday, that’s for sure.

 

The sunlight lingers, golden around her as she waits.  She thinks she loves Isabela.  No. She does not  _ think _ it, she knows it, deep, wide.  But Izzy isn’t here.  She’s in jail; public indecency, was it?  Merrill can’t remember.  And anyway, how could boobs be indecent? Merrill wonders, then puts her hand over her mouth, certain she has spoken her thought aloud.  She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand, kicks her heels in a rhythm against the bed.  Izzy’ll be back, Avie will get her.  And Zevran seemed like he knew what he was doing.  He was pretty confident, anyway.  

 

Finally, Merrill gets up and draws the curtains.  The sun is gone.  She smiles and sings, “Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me…” but it sounds too sad, here in this grotty room, all by herself.  Surely Anders would have called by now?  She looks at the phone, beige and solid; she wills it to ring until she can almost hear it.

 

Noises in the hallway, a laugh.  She turns quickly, too quickly; stars spin in her vision and she inhales, certain for a moment that she’s going to fall.  She blinks at the doorway as the sensation clears.  No, it couldn’t have been.  Anders would have called if they’d gotten out.  That wasn’t Isabela’s laugh, she tells herself sternly, just snap out of it!  And then there is a fumbling at the door, and it  _ is _ Isabela, Isabela with tousled hair, Isabela carrying something.  Merrill flies across the room to her, not hearing the cry she gives, not feeling the tears spring to her eyes.  And then they are hugging, Isabela’s arm trapped against her stomach, something squishy there too, but Merrill doesn’t care.  Tal grins at her over Isabela’s shoulder and Anders shakes his head.  “You were right,” he mutters, “Just as well we didn’t light the candles.”

 

Isabela chuckles and moves back.  “Happy birthday.  Uh, I got you a cake,” she says, looking down at their stomachs, still pressed together.  Merrill blinks, peers down at the remnants of the cake smooshed onto their clothes, and she grins.  “It looks delicious,” she says, tears standing in her eyes, “I love you Izzy.”

“Love you too, kitten,” she says and sniffs.  “Sorry about the cake.”

“Ooh, I don’t give a shit about the cake,” Merrill says, taking one hand off Isabela’s shoulder and wiping her eyes.  “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Yeah,” Isabela says, “I’m happy to see you too.  Uh,” she grins, looking over her shoulder slightly, “This just turned into a private party.  See you in the morning boys.  And thanks for the lift, Anders!”

Merrill laughs, not hearing their grumpy replies.   _ Happy birthday to me! _ she thinks joyously, and her heart sings.


	20. White Chant Party, Val Royeaux, 9:23 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra Pentaghast's first meeting with Regalyan D'Marcall.

He smiles at her across the room, and she looks away.  These parties are all the same.  Why does she even stay?  Byron is gone, Martel is drunk again, and Lucius… Lucius is being  _ Lucius _ , accepting the fawning and the idiocy as only he can, a beautiful woman under each arm, the expression on his face telling the room clearly that this is his  _ due _ , this is his  _ right. _  Cassandra sighs and looks away.

 

The dark haired man catches her eye again and begins to walk over.  Maker.  No.   _ No. _  Cassandra pulls herself up to her full height and stares at the man, who arches one eyebrow and cocks his head.  He’s either oblivious or an over-confident asshole, or both.   _ Fuck off _ , Cassandra thinks, her eyes narrowing,  _ Fuck off and leave me alo… _

“Hello,” the man says cheerfully and sticks out his hand.  “I hate this sort of thing, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she tells him coldly.  She wants to leave his hand hanging in the air, but her propriety gets the better of her and she shakes his fingers quickly before letting go.  He snorts a laugh and says, “I’m Galyan.  Though, I suppose I’m better known as…” He smiles shyly and says, “Health.”

 

Cassandra stares at him blankly, then asks, “Health?  Why would you..?”

“Oh, uh, it’s a… like a pseudonym?  A lot of DJ’s have them…”

“You’re a DJ?”  She’s unable to keep the scorn from her voice, and he flushes, rubs the back of his neck.  She scowls and folds her arms.  “I apologise,” she mumbles, “That was rude.”

“Yeah…” He half-smiles and gestures over his shoulder.  “Maybe I'll just…”

“Please,” Cassandra mutters, “Let me… try again.”  She takes a deep breath and looks up for a moment, then smiles tensely.  “I am Cassandra Pentaghast.  Of Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children.”

“Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children?” he laughs incredulously, “What in the Void is that?”

“A band,” she mumbles, and his eyes widen.  

“Oh.  Oh, shit.  I’m so sorry,” he says quickly, “I should have guessed, of course, you’re not here at this dumb party by choice.  I just thought maybe you were someone’s publicist or something, here to keep them out of troub…”  He stops, exhales.  “Wow, that was a sexist thing to say.  Shit.  Okay!”  He laughs again, bites his lip, and in spite of it all, she can feel herself warming to him.  He grins.  “Look, I’m just going to be over in… you know, Antiva or something, trying to recover from my massive embarrassment.”

 

She snorts.  “No need.  I have heard worse.”

“I’m sure,” Galyan says, then frowns.  “I’m sorry to say I’ve never heard of Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children.  What do you play?”

“Lead guitar.  We are a sludge, or ambient, I suppose, doomcore band.  Well, probably more ambient than sludge now, but… you don’t know what that is, do you?”

“You lost me at doomcore,” he grins, “But I know ambient!  Is it like ambient house?”

“I do not know what that is,” Cassandra smiles, “But I suppose.  We’re heavy metal, loosely.”

“Oh,” Galyan says, then his eyes narrow.  “You don’t know that tosser over there, do you?”

 

He gestures over his shoulder at Martel.  Cassandra sighs and nods quickly.  “Yes.  He is our bass player.  He is an…”  She bites her tongue and he snickers.

“Yeah.  He is.” Galyan states, then shrugs.  “This is why I like working alone.”

 

“Believe me, if I could, I would,” Cassandra says.  Silence falls between them, then Galyan clears his throat.

“So, Cassandra Pentaghast, lead guitar player for an ambient doomcore heavy sludge metal band with an asshole bassist,” he says softly, “You want to make our escape?”

She frowns and he laughs.  “I’m not making a pass, I swear.  Or…” He studies her expression for a moment and nods.  “Definitely not making a pass.  I can make one later if you want.”  Cassandra looks away and smiles slightly, then shrugs.  Galyan laughs again - she likes the sound of it, it’s so… light, so happy.  “Look, I’m sorry.  I’d just… you seem interesting.  But I fucking hate these parties, and I kind of get the sense that you do too.  So if you like, we can… I don’t know.  Do something that normal people do?”

 

“I would like that,” she says, after a moment’s hesitation.  “There is a bar two blocks from here.  They will still be open.”

“Do you mean the Cave?” he asks and she nods.  “Great. Yeah.  That sounds… yeah.”  He smiles at her once more, open, charming, and she smiles back.  Quickly, before she loses her nerve, she points to the door.  “Let’s go then.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he tells her, and together they go out of the crowded White Chant party, out into the humid Val Royeaux night.


	21. The Crown and Lion, Amaranthine City, 9:29 Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story for every scar, or: Anders gets his nose pierced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Live 'til You Die, there is a bit which describes Anders as having a scar from a nostril ring. Since there's a story for every scar, here's this one.

“Maker, Nate,” he says, eyes open, watering, “Just do it already.”

“Have to get the angle right,” Nathaniel tells him, frowning, then takes the safety pin away and asks, “Are you sure about this, Anders?”

“As if having an icecube up my nose for half a day wouldn’t be proof of that,” Anders answers, and Velanna says, “If you won’t do it, I will.”

 

“Fine,” Nathaniel tells her, and hands her the open safety pin.

“Oh, uh, steady on,” Anders says quickly.  Velanna arches an eyebrow.

“What?” she asks, “Or is it just that you like being on your knees in front of Nathaniel?  Is that it?”

“Part of it,” Anders titters, then wrenches his head back as her fingernails sink into his cheek.  “That’s my fucking  _ face _ , Velanna!”

“You’re the one that wanted my boyfriend to stick a safety pin in the side of your nose!” she seethes at him, then grabs his chin again in one hand.  “Do you want this done or not?”

 

“Andraste’s Tits,” he hears Gwen say, sounding drunk, “What’re you lot doin’ to the poor boy?”

“Anders wanted his nose pierced,” Nathaniel explains and even over the noise coming from the front room, he can hear her tut.

“Bloody void,” she says, sounding in awe, “Now this I have to see.”

 

Velanna’s face fills Anders’ vision, and she looks at him questioningly.  He takes a deep breath and tells her, “‘Kay.  Do it.”

“Okay,” she says, and shoves the end of the open safety pin through the side of his nostril.

It’s not as bad as he’d imagined it would be.  Honestly, it feels more like an awkward pinch, then a flare of pain, which rapidly dies away.  “Huh,” he says, opening his eyes.  “That wasn’t too…”

Gwen chokes, covering her mouth, then brays laughter.  “You can’t leave ‘im like that, Vel!”

“I don’t know,” Velanna says cooly, “I think it suits him.”

Nathaniel sighs, shakes his head and says, “I don’t even know why I ask, but did you want to leave the safety pin in, or did you have another idea?”

 

“Oh.  Uh, shit, I didn’t think of that,” Anders says, and Nathaniel rolls his eyes.  

“Of course,” he says, and shakes his head.  “I suppose you’ll have to make do with the…”

“Oh!” Gwen exclaims, and he glances at her from his position on the floor.  “I might… hang on…”

She feels along the ridge of her ear and grins at him, bringing both hands up to fiddle with something.  “Here,” she says, holding out a gold hoop.  “Don’t like hoops anyway.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” he grins up at her, “It’s almost like you’re asking me for my hand.”

“Wouldn’t I be the lucky duck,” she winks at him and then waggles the little piece of jewelry.  “You want it or not?”

“Sure,” he says, plucking it out from between her fingers.  He frowns a little, then puts Gwen’s hoop between his lips and pulls gingerly on the safety pin.  The others watch him in silence - Velanna with an expression of mild interest, Nathaniel with disgust and Gwen with a delighted grin on her face.  “Gross,” she tells him and he smiles and hands her the safety pin.

 

Quickly, he opens the hoop and feels along the edge of his nose until he finds the hole.  Okay, that  _ does _ hurt a bit, but it’ll get better soon, so he shoves the end of the hoop into it.  Oh, yes.  Yes, that fucking hurts.  He laughs quietly, closes the hoop and rubs the edge of his nose, pulling mana up from the pool inside himself, calling on the Fade.  Anders closes his eyes, imagines cells pulling together, imagines scab tissue crusting over and falling off, imagines healing.  He hears a slow exhale from Velanna and opens one eye to smile at her.  She rolls her eyes at him and he asks her, “How do I look?”

 

“Like an idiot.  Nothing has changed.”  Velanna smiles at him briefly, then turns on her heel, leaving the room.  

“She’s right, ‘Ders.  You still look a right prat,” Gwen winks at him, and Nathaniel sighs and extends a hand, pulling Anders to his feet.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says quietly, and gives that little half-smile that Anders likes, the one that tells him Nate knows he  _ shouldn’t _ do what he’s about to suggest, but he’s going to anyway.  He smirks, gives Nathaniel a wink.

“I’ll take that as a  _ Gosh Anders, you certainly have improved your already incredible good looks tenfold and it’s all I can do to stop myself jumping your bones right here and now _ , then, shall I?”

“You do that,” Nathaniel tells him, sounding tired.  He glances out of the back room, back toward the bar and says, “C’mon, buy us a drink.”

“Will do,” Anders smiles, and with Gwen tagging along, they head back toward the bar.


	22. OCKiss17: Antiva City, 9:33 Dragon [Krasny Hawke x Taliesin Hawke]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krasny Hawke meets Taliesin Hawke in... where else?... a dive bar in Antiva City while Fader are on hiatus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you's to un-shit-yourself for allowing this travesty to take place, and for being so cool with lending out her Precious Child, Krasny. Kras is now, for better or worse, part of the Wastelands 'verse. This originally appeared on Tumblr, but because I am only just now getting back into writing the Wastelands stuff, it's got a bit of an edit and a revival.

It feels oddly sacred, down here in the dark. Taliesin pushes into the thick of the crowd, into the humid dimness, lit only with the glow of cigarettes and stage lights. He grins as Zevran turns, watching the elf’s mouth move, as he gestures toward the stage. “What?” Taliesin yells, leaning forward, and Zevran stops, turning around completely, his hands going to Taliesin’s shoulders, pulling him down to yell in his ear. “This is Seven Deaths,” he tells Taliesin loudly, “Solid guitar, bass needs work, but my friend! Watch the lead singer! He is worth considering for Apostasy, if you want my opinion!”  
“Opinions are like assholes, Zev darling,” Taliesin tells him smugly, but Zevran has moved away, turning back toward the stage, pushing through the masses. A heavy drum beat, then a tremulous guitar sound begins, the product of rapid strumming or some sort of vibrato effect pedal arcs around the space, and the crowd surges forward, crying out, arms upraised. Taliesin laughs, following Zevran, pushing through after him, ignoring the elbows he receives. Zevran has made right for centre stage, and he stops two rows from the front, folds his arms over his chest and looks over his shoulder at Taliesin, who shrugs and raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks, bending down to Zevran’s pointed ear, “Nothing new here. Sounds like a rip off of…”  
“Wait for it,” Zevran assures him, smirking smugly. Taliesin takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes, patting his pocket for his cigarettes. Antiva City is one of the last places in Thedas that you can still get away with smoking indoors - he’s been through a pack and a half too quickly simply because he can. From the corner of his eye he sees a figure walking rapidly out onto the stage, but he concentrates on fishing a cigarette from the packet and putting it in between his lips. Quickly, he glances to one side then the other, cupping his hands around the end of the cigarette to click his fingers, summoning flame into them. But then, a low voice comes from the stage, and Taliesin looks up.

 

A tall man stands there, both hands on the microphone, his hair shining in the dull beam of the green stage-lights. Pale, muscular shoulders glisten softly, his feet planted wide, hips swaying slightly. ...Driven by restrained desire, he sings, and his voice is low and sultry, making Taliesin arch his eyebrow slightly at the tingle of lust which spikes along his nerves at the sound, I want what I need... Maker those… those leather pants are… they’re certainly tight, and the laces up the front look… Taliesin swallows hard, clenching his jaw as he tucks the unlit cigarette behind his ear, his eyes locked on the man on the stage, the way he bends at the knees slightly, the way he cups the microphone with both hands. His chest is bare, his long hair tousled about his shoulders. Taliesin cocks his head slightly, wondering what all that thick hair would feel like in his fist. He looks down, sees Zevran smiling at him knowingly and rolls his eyes again. “Yeah, yeah,” he yells, and Zevran laughs, punching him lightly on the shoulder.  
“I will take that as an apology!” he yells back to Taliesin, who chuckles and turns his eyes once more to the beautiful man in front of him.

After Seven Deaths have finally left the stage, Taliesin and Zevran push their way through to the backstage door. “Zev,” the Vashoth bouncer nods, narrowing her eyes at Taliesin, “And who’s this?”  
“Herah, may I introduce Tal Hawke? One of our Marcher friends, he’s…”  
“Yeah, Fader, right?” the bouncers eyes narrow further and as she steps aside, she asks, “You lot gonna get back together?”  
“Probably not,” Taliesin tells her, and shrugs. She grins back at him, then winks at Zevran. “Good. Pirate Queen are fucking awesome.”  
“Hear that Zev? You lot’re loved,” Taliesin says acerbically, and Zevran snorts, smirking at him. Herah opens the door for them, and they walk into the hustle of backstage, a long corridor where roadies bustle back and forth and groupies stalk in packs. Taliesin grins and winks at a thin elf with tattoos crawling up his neck from the collar of his grey t-shirt, who blinks at him, his mouth dropping open a little. Oh good, he thinks, feeling his self-confidence grow, feeling his stride relax into a swagger, his lips curling into a smirk. 

Suddenly, a door to their left swings open, Taliesin hears it thump hard on the opposing wall, and someone shouts, “...if you idiots are too thick to realise…” and then a figure, whoever it is, storms out and promptly collides with Taliesin. He turns as he’s pushed, the momentum of the figure carrying them both forward - which is how Taliesin ends up with his back pressed against a raw plyboard wall, and a tall, red-haired man pressed into his front.

There are worse situations to be in. He smirks up at the man, who scowls down at him. Maker, it’s the lead singer of Seven Deaths, and he’s still wearing those pants, Taliesin can feel them, and how did his hands end up on the other man’s hips so fast? “What an introduction! I usually like a kiss first,” he says drolly, and hooks one leg around the man’s thigh, “But in your case, sir, I’ll make an exception.”  
Almost on instinct, the man places his hand underneath Taliesin’s thigh, holds it up. “Really?”’ he asks, his eyes narrowing, meeting Taliesin’s smirk with one of his own. And then, just like that, he is leaning forward, his mouth on Taliesin’s, lips demanding. It’s all Taliesin can do not to laugh, his eyes widen and then he is kissing back, hard, harder, his mouth opening, one hand going to the other man’s neck underneath the gorgeous flow of his hair, pulling him forward. Their tongues meet, slide hungrily against each other and Taliesin grinds his hips forward a little as the other man’s hand slides up his thigh to be thrust unceremoniously down the back of his jeans. Taliesin gasps, suddenly panicking, his mind babbling Anders and Fenris! Anders and Fenris! Idiot, idiot, stop while you can! He fumbles with the thought, the rush of the moment trying to push it aside, and then breaks the kiss when he hears a small harrumph noise to his left.

Zevran leans against the wall, watching them with a smile on his face and one eyebrow raised. “As entertaining as this is,” he smirks, “You may want to actually talk to each other at some stage. Krasny, meet Taliesin - sorry! Tal! - Tal, meet Krasny. Krasny, Tal is the part owner of Apostasy/Freedom Music - I thought you may like to discuss some business propositions. And perhaps… other propositions.” His smile widens, becomes a veritable grin as both Taliesin and Krasny look at him, “Plus you share so many wonderful traits! Both of you have incredible stage presence, both of you are rather good looking and you both…” he winks, “have the surname Hawke. I’m sure it is a mere coincidence.” He waves a hand and laughs, “Please. Continue the show.”

Taliesin laughs to cover his awkwardness, and looks at Krasny, who smirks back at him. “Propositions, huh?” he purrs, and Taliesin shrugs.  
“Well,” he says flatly, then arches his eyebrows, “The night is still young.” He pushes Krasny back a little and steps off the wall, “Perhaps we’ll have time for more than one kind.” He takes a card from his pocket and offers it to Krasny, who takes it, reads it quickly and smiles. “I’m in town for a few days, but if you’ve got a moment, we could talk now..?”  
“Yeah,” Krasny says, and looks appraisingly at Taliesin. “Yeah. I’ve got time.”  
“Oh good,” Taliesin grins, and winks. “Then let’s find somewhere… a little more private, shall we?”


	23. Make Up Your Mind [Gnawed Noble, 9:30 Dragon]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Alistair Therin, bassist for the band Last Warden Standing, meets Gwen Cousland, bassist for the band Highever Orphan, it's a match made in heaven. Punk heaven, but still.

“Oh shit,” Alistair yells into Riordan’s ear, “That’s her, isn’t it!?”

Riordan looks at him --  _ smirks  _ at him is a more accurate description, really.  He beckons Alistair closer.  It’s virtually impossible to talk properly over the noise of the crowd and the amplified guitars, the drums and the yelling from the stage, not to mention the generator they’re standing next to, so he keeps his comment short.  “Yes!” He yells into Alistair’s ear, “Gwen; Highever Orphan! Her brother on drums!”

Alistair nods and scratches his arm.  Then he remembers the new tattoo and has to satisfy himself with wiggling uncomfortably before shoving both hands into his pockets.  His eyes don’t leave the stage, although he can feel Riordan’s eyes on him.  Alistair sighs internally; Riordan is probably smirking again.  He’s the youngest member of Last Warden Standing, and he half-likes and half-feels-weird-about the somewhat paternal attitude both Riordan and Duncan have toward him, though he’s been with them for two years now.   _ You’re just not used to someone looking out for you _ , he tells himself, and shakes his head.

The song finishes.  But instead of launching straight into the next one, the vocalist shrugs at Gwen and makes an angry face, even as he beckons her forward.  She makes a face at him in return, yelling something that Alistair can’t make out, and gives him a rude gesture, but he’s walking away from the mic.  The crowd are baying now, and Alistair feels all his muscles tense.  Without looking at Riordan at all, he pushes forward, shoving people out of the way, riding the shoves he gets in return.  For some reason, if this gets ugly, he wants to  _ be there _ .  For her.   _ Don’t think too much about it _ , he tells himself, already feeling the coil of embarrassment in his guts, and keeps moving toward the tiny stage in the back of the Gnawed Noble.

Suddenly, he’s at the front, and Gwen is right  _ there _ .  She’s short; she has bright green hair, growing out at the roots.  “Yeah, yeah, you fuckers,” she laughs into the mic, which screams feedback.  “‘Draste, get that, would you, Ferg?” she mutters, and the sound of it catches in the mic.  The drummer gets up, turns a dial on an amplifier and Gwen laughs again.  “Looks like we lost another fuckin’ singer,” she tells the crowd.  “And at our last gig here too! We’re shippin’ up to Amaranthine next week, to show those bastards how we do it here in the big smoke!”  The crowd laugh and roar at her, and spit and a beer can fly up onto the stage.  Gwen laughs again.  “Here’s our version of a song by that bunch of cunts known as The Hoard… wanna hear you, Denerim, you know the words, let’s go!”

She nods to Fergus, who kicks up a jaunty ska-style rhythm.  Gwen laughs again and Alistair grins up at her.  She glances at him briefly, grins back, then looks at the guitarist.  It’s a pretty basic song structure, in what is becoming standard for the genre, but what’s unusual is the delight with which Gwen sings.  She’s not a great singer, he supposes, but the way she plays bass is pretty amazing.  He blinks, peering at the instrument in her hand.  Its neck and body are both chipped, and she’s got shiny smiley face stickers on her fretboard in the places her fingers would rest for the major chords.  Alistair smiles and looks up at her face again, sees her grinning at him.   _ Whatcha gonna do with yourself? _ she sings, and it’s like she’s asking him personally,  _ Boy, when you gonna make up your mind? _

_ I have _ , he tells her in his mind, the clarity of it somehow grounding, making him want to laugh along with her.   _ I made it up just now _ .  And in the same breath he knows it’s foolish to love someone at first sight, as he wonders if maybe she already has someone special in her life, as he thinks she’ll probably laugh at him if he tells her he loves her tonight, he knows he doesn’t mind at all.  They smile at each other, her on-stage, singing and playing bass, covered in sweat and other people’s beer, him with his hands shoved in his pockets, the itch of his new tattoo forgotten entirely.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics quoted in this story are from the Operation Ivy song _Knowledge_. That's also where the title comes from. This story originally appeared as part of Alistair Appreciation Week 2017.


End file.
